


Our Little Secret

by MissMollyBloom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23133841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMollyBloom/pseuds/MissMollyBloom
Summary: My story for Sherlolly appreciation week 2020 - Day 2, Secret Dating.The origins of Molly’s Flat as Sherlock’s bolthole and an explanation for Molly’s smirk when questioned about it in that scene in His Last Vow.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	Our Little Secret

The first time it happened, she didn’t even know about it until the morning after. In the pre-dawn gloom of her loungeroom, and without her contacts in, she hadn’t paid any attention to the lump on her sofa, covered with blankets. She couldn’t see that the lump was moving slightly with every breath of the detective in deep sleep, didn’t hear the small rustle of his body as it rolled over, trying to get comfortable on a settee that was clearly not built with someone his size in mind.

It was only when, coffee in hand, she went to sit down and the lounge under her made a grunt, causing Molly to throw her coffee across the room in surprise, that the pathologist realised she had a house guest. Shocked, she moved to grab the nearest defensive object, a fire-poker, or maybe a rolled-up magazine, but she never got to think through it as Sherlock, whose sleepy state still hadn’t dulled his lightning-fast reflexes, reached up, placing hands on her arms. Molly began to struggle against him with all her strength until his familiar baritone broke through her fear-soaked adrenaline rush.

“Molly, it’s me, it’s Sherlock.”

She stilled.

He let go.

Molly blinked her eyes into focus, reaching for her spare glasses which had somehow not been unsettled from their place on the coffee table in the struggle. As she put them on, the familiar face came into view, the piercing blue-green eyes, the mop of brown curls, more wild and unsettled than she’d ever seen them, but then, she had just woken the man up.

It was then she noticed just exactly what the detective was wearing, or wasn’t as the case may be. She couldn’t tell from the blanket, which was still, in some miracle of physics, wrapped around his waist, but from the amount of skin visible, she could safely assume that Sherlock slept naked.

“Sherlock,” Molly began, not quite knowing what to ask, “What are you doing in my house?”

Sherlock, without an ounce of self-consciousness, sat up, a hand raking idly through his hair.

“I needed somewhere to sleep,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I can see that,” Molly smirked, trying to stay casual and trying her best not to stare at the porcelain skin of his chest that somehow made her think of statues in marble she’d seen on her last summer trip to Europe. Michelangelo’s detective.

Sherlock stretched both arms above his head, either completely oblivious to the effect he was having on her or, more likely, entirely aware but also entirely unconcerned. Girlfriends really weren’t his area, or so Molly had heard.

“So, why are you sleeping in my flat? Did Mrs Hudson kick you out?” Molly said, turning a retreat into the kitchen to grab towels to clean the coffee she spilled, certainly not in an attempt to retain her dignity before she started drooling.

“Nothing like that,” he called, and from the rustling in the room, she assumed he was taking the opportunity to grab his pants which Molly had noticed had been slung over her armchair. “I was working late at Bart’s and your flat is much closer than mine.”

“Sherlock-“ Molly chided, she knew he wasn’t telling the truth.

“That, and I’m sick of hearing all the obnoxiously loud sex.”

“John and Sarah?” she asked.

“No,” Sherlock exhaled, almost in a laugh, “Mrs Hudson. She’s on again with the baker from down the street.”

Molly waited a moment in the kitchen, not wanting to accidentally catch the detective in any more of a compromising a position than she already had. Molly re-boiled the kettle for a cup to replace the one which was currently soaking into the rug – she’d probably have to send it out to be cleaned.

Once the coffee was ready, she turned, only to find Sherlock standing directly behind her, her face almost colliding with his chest.

“Can I ask you a favour?” he said, his eyes wide like a doe, the face he always pulled when he was trying to manipulate her. He had no idea how transparent it was to her, but she always played along.

“Next time, can I have the spare room?”

Molly’s nose scrunched in confusion. “I don’t have a spare room.”

“I mean your room,” he walked off down the hallway, she followed him, catching him peering in at her bed.

Horrified, Molly ran in to grab yesterday’s bra and pants that were sitting on the end of her bed.

“Sherlock, you can’t just have my room,” Molly protested.

Sherlock rubbed his neck, “Well I can’t keep sleeping on your lounge, I need more space, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock was looking intensely into her eyes, he was crowding out her personal space in more ways than one, and for a moment it looked to Molly as if he were enjoying it.

Suddenly he turned, surveying her room with the sweeping gesture he used on crime scenes and when examining bodies in the morgue for trace evidence.

She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or horrified.

“Yes, this is plenty of space. It should do nicely,” he said, flopping down on the bed, oblivious to Molly’s discomfort.

Molly huffed, “and what about me?” she asked.

Sherlock smirked, “Maybe we could share?” he said, patting the bed in an invitation for her to join him.

From that first night, it was always Molly’s most closely guarded secret that when the detective used her flat as a bolthole, he always shared her bed, and not long after that night, Molly found that there were indeed benefits to sharing a flat and a bed with a detective with a penchant for sleeping naked.

All of which she attempted to hide behind a Mona Lisa smile the day Mary Watson came to Barts, years later, and asked her about Sherlock’s boltholes. His sleeping in her flat for the past three years might have become part of the public record that say, but his sleeping with her for just as long was a secret that Molly wasn’t yet ready to share.


End file.
